


Kept

by silentdescant



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, BDSM, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Flogging, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Polyamory, Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8841439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: It's moving day and Mitch is in charge of all the arrangements. He's a little stressed about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my darling RagingRainbow for betaing this as I went along and worked out all the kinks (ha)!

Mitch is vibrating with nerves. It might also be the caffeine pumping through his veins, but he’s been given a lot of responsibility today, and he needs everything to go smoothly. Scott put him in charge of the movers, and now all these big, burly men are looking to him for direction, and Mitch can’t let Scott down. It’s not just the coffee and the movers and the mountains of boxes and the giant mansion that are peaking Mitch’s stress levels, though. Today is also the first time he’s meeting two of Scott’s contracted submissives. They’re not here yet, which means they could arrive at any moment, and Mitch has to be calm and confident and in control.

He’s very much _not_ any of those things.

He bites the ragged edge of his thumbnail and stares at the grand foyer from his perch on the front step. This house is too big. It’s too much. It’s more extravagant than anywhere he’s lived in his whole life. Even Scott’s swanky penthouse apartment didn’t make Mitch feel this small and out of place.

The head moving guy, the biggest and burliest of the men, is named Joe, and he comes up to Mitch with a clipboard. “All the boxes and furniture are labeled,” he says. “Just tell us where it goes.”

Mitch looks at the list. Cara’s room is first, alphabetically. He stares at her name for a long moment. This is his job today. Everything has to go well. He pulls a stack of post-it notes and a pen from his bag, then gestures for Joe to follow him inside.

They walk through the giant house together and Mitch sticks a note to the door of each room, labeling it to match the boxes on Joe’s list. Cara’s room, the dining room, the two guest rooms, the kitchen, the library, the living room, the exercise room, the movie room—the _movie room_ , Mitch rolls his eyes—Nathan’s room, Scott’s office, the studio, the wine cellar. The master suite. The playroom. “And the pool house is out back,” Mitch adds when they’ve toured the whole place. There are too many rooms in this goddamn house. It’s too big.

“We’ll start with the furniture,” Joe tells him. “It’s best if you stay out of the way.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Mitch replies. “I’ll be out on the patio. Yell if you need me.”

“I’ll find you when we start bringing in the boxes.”

Mitch stuffs his organizational supplies back in his bag and goes out to the pool. There’s a built-in couch curved around a fire pit, and it’s one of the things Mitch loves about this place. He can just picture cuddling up with Scott at night, under the stars, a fire crackling in front of them. The pool, the patio, the balcony outside the master suite upstairs, these were the things that got Mitch excited about moving out of his cramped downtown apartment. He’s thrilled to finally have spacious rooms and closet doors that aren’t falling off their creaky hinges.

All the rest of these rooms are just too overwhelming. What are they going to do with two additional guest rooms? Why do they need a wine cellar?

His phone buzzes with a text from Scott: **How’s it going?**

Mitch bites the inside of his lower lip until it welts. **They’re moving in furniture now. Boxes soon. I’m staying out of the way.**

 **Good** , Scott replies. **Cara and Nathan will be there soon to help unpack. I’ll let you know when I’m done at work.**

Mitch taps out a message. **I miss my apartment.** He erases it immediately, because it’s not actually true, then writes, **I miss your apartment.** He deletes that too. He does miss Scott’s apartment, which felt like home, but it’s not fair to say that to Scott, who’s doing this for him, for all of them. He finally settles on, **I miss you.**

**I’ll be home in a few hours. Don’t have too much fun without me!**

“Impossible,” Mitch mutters.

It’s not long before Mitch hears light, bubbly laughter, a woman in the house. He stands up just in time to see her—Cara, he recognizes her from her pictures online. She comes down the steps quickly, rushing toward him.

“You must be Mitch!” she cries happily. She wraps her arms around Mitch’s neck and squeezes him tight. “Oh my god, I’m so excited to finally meet you in person. You’re so much cuter in real life!”

Mitch chuckles nervously. “Thanks, I guess?”

“Oh, no! I just meant—You’re taller than I expected, but… I don’t know what I mean. It’s just so good to meet you, finally.”

“Yeah, you too.”

They’ve talked, of course, exchanged messages and emails when Scott decided they should all move in together, but Mitch finds himself studying Cara’s body, how she holds herself so tall and confidently, how her dark hair falls in glamorous waves across her shoulders. She’s dressed casually, jeans and a t-shirt and flat, beat-up Converse shoes, and Mitch wants to like her. She seems very girl-next-door, happy and enthusiastic and cute. It’s hard to reconcile what Mitch knows about Scott’s tastes with… her.

Mitch steadfastly ignores the spike of jealousy that cuts through him like a knife. There’s no reason to be jealous; he’s known about Cara—and Nathan—since Scott first scened with them. They’re not… threatening. Not really. Mitch knows he’s important to Scott. There’s no reason to be jealous.

It makes him wonder, though, how Cara sees him. Mitch mentally pages through his Instagram, his Facebook, thinking about the pictures he’s posted. The comments. What kind of impression he must give online.

“It’s been so stressful, not having all my stuff for a couple days,” Cara tells him. “I’m so glad we’re finally moving in. Can we go see our rooms yet? Have you seen them?”

Mitch doesn’t tell her he picked out the rooms. “When the movers finish with the furniture, then I think we can. They said I should stay out of the way.”

“Well, yeah, they don’t want to squish us with a bookshelf.”

“Mitch?”

Cara and Mitch both whip around, startled by the new voice. Mitch is a little disheartened to see that Nathan is just as stunning and beautiful in person as he is on Instagram. No filters necessary. Nathan is tall and blonde and built, and of course he’s wearing a tight enough shirt to make that clear to everyone. A horrifying trickle of inadequacy slithers into Mitch’s stomach.

“Cara,” Nathan says. “Been a while, huh?” He holds his hand out and Cara shakes it eagerly. Mitch shakes his hand too. Nathan’s grip is strong and firm. He looks like sunshine.

“And you must be Mitch. I don’t think we’ve met before, have we? Have I seen you around the club? Maybe with Scott?”

“No, probably not.” Mitch hasn’t been to the club since he and Scott were dating, almost two years ago now.

“That’s how Nathan and I know each other,” Cara says. “Well, and we scened together a couple of times.”

“With Scott?” Mitch asks shrilly. Jealousy surges through him for a second. They know each other. They have a connection. They have a connection _together_ , with _Scott_. Mitch laughs it off, slaps on a grin. _It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine_ , he tells himself.

Why hasn’t Scott taken him to the club, though? Why haven’t they scened with someone else?

_You hated the club. Scott loves you._

A darker voice hisses in Mitch’s mind, _You’re not well behaved enough to scene with another sub._

Joe comes out onto the patio. The guys have started moving in boxes. Cara grabs at Mitch’s arm and tugs excitedly.

“Let’s go see our rooms!”

She gushes about everything as they walk through the foyer: the wide staircase, the light fixtures, the plush carpet. Mitch leads the way, once they get upstairs. Cara’s room is to the left, down the hall, still labeled with a sticky note, and her excitement is contagious. Mitch is thrilled at her reactions, and he’s proud of the choices he made. He helped Scott decide on this place. He chose all the room assignments. He made all the moving day arrangements. This is Mitch’s project as much as it is Scott’s, and he’s glad that Cara seems to appreciate it.

Cara throws herself onto the bed and bounces on the bare mattress. “Ahhh, this is great. I stayed at a friend’s place last night once my place was packed up. Her couch was so uncomfortable. I’m way too tall for it.”

Scott’s penthouse and Mitch’s apartment were both packed by the movers yesterday too, but Scott booked them a luxurious hotel room for the night. He doesn’t mention this to Cara.

“Help me unpack?” she asks.

Nathan has disappeared, presumably in search of his own bedroom. Mitch nods and together they make quick work of the furniture, pushing the dresser this way and the vanity that way, nudging the bed closer to the window. The more Mitch talks to Cara, the more he likes her. He understands what Scott sees in her, now.

She’s extremely passionate, that much is clear from the way her eyes light up when she talks about her job. It’s something Mitch finds exceedingly boring, having to do with spreadsheets and numbers, but Cara obviously loves it, and it sounds like she’s well-respected in the finance department of her company.

They sit down on the floor around a box labeled linens, and Cara tears into it eagerly. “What is it you do, Mitch?” she asks.

“Oh! Um.” Mitch isn’t really prepared for the conversation to turn toward him. He pulls out a folded set of sheets and quickly turns away to spread them out on the bed. “I’m a singer, kind of. I do music… stuff.”

“Oh, is that how you met Scott?”

Cara doesn’t get that a producer of Scott’s standing doesn’t meet with singers like Mitch. “No,” he says. “We met at the club.” Mitch was too scared to even mention music until they started dating seriously. He still worries sometimes that Scott thinks Mitch is using him. But that’s silly. Scott loves him. He does. It’s been _two years_.

Before the conversation can get any more uncomfortable, Mitch excuses himself to go unpack Scott’s office. The movers can handle most of the rooms without much supervision; they’ll mostly be set up how Scott’s apartment was arranged. Mitch wants to do Scott’s office himself, though, because he’s observed exactly how Scott likes it, and he’s even made notes to keep things straight.

The books have to be in order by size—it’s more aesthetically pleasing that way than alphabetically, anyway—and the wires on all Scott’s equipment need to be labeled and coiled nicely. Scott’s office attaches to the little studio, too, and Mitch doesn’t trust movers to set up Scott’s fancy recording equipment.

Mitch loses himself in the work, testing every connection and arranging Scott’s workspace just so, and only realizes how long it’s been when his stomach rumbles. It’s been hours since his meager breakfast of a fruit cup and venti coffee, and the caffeine has definitely worn off.

He wanders out of the studio, out of the office, out of the east wing of the house toward the kitchen in search of food. With any luck, the movers have already unloaded the pantry.

Instead of food, Mitch finds Nathan, shirtless and flushed, putting dishes and silverware into cabinets and drawers. He looks up as Mitch enters and gives him a lazy smile.

“Hey, Mitch!”

“Hey…”

“Sorry if I was weird earlier,” Nathan says. He’s still grinning in a strange, soft sort of way that strikes Mitch as out of character. Maybe he’s always like this, though. His Instagram wouldn’t show this side of him. “I was just nervous about moving in.”

“It’s okay,” Mitch replies. “I am too.”

“I’m so excited, though!” Nathan gushes. He suddenly reminds Mitch of Cara. “I think it’s going to be really good. I mean, we’re all in one place, and we don’t have to arrange scenes at the club, or rent rooms at the dungeon… I mean, we can just casually, like… see what happens…”

“Mm-hmm. That’s one of the perks.” Mitch turns away so he doesn’t have to look at Nathan’s incredibly chiseled abs and starts opening cabinets at random. He doesn’t want to ask where the food is.

“Oh, Scott told me to tell you… He tried to call you earlier but you didn’t answer.”

Mitch whirls around. “What? Scott called?” He hadn’t heard his phone ring—but he left his bag in Cara’s room.

“Yeah, when he got here, the movers were just about done, so he signed whatever paperwork needed to be done and sent them away.”

“Wait, Scott’s _here_?”

Nathan nods. Mitch gapes at him, disappointed in himself for disappearing for hours when he should’ve been helping the movers. Directing them, supervising them. Organizing the whole day. That was his job. Nathan clearly doesn’t pick up on Mitch’s urgency as he slowly starts washing a long, wooden spoon in the sink.

“He got here a little while ago. Was looking for you. We had, uh… some fun.” He grins and holds up the spoon.

“Fun with a spoon…” Mitch murmurs, chuckling nervously. Hurt creeps in from the back of his mind, spreading like a dark fog. Scott should’ve found him first, before playing with Nathan in the kitchen. A quick scene would explain Nathan’s mood as well; he’s still feeling the giddy, sated effects of subspace, and now that Mitch knows the cause, he recognizes the symptoms easily. If Scott was so desperate to play when he got home, he should’ve…

He should’ve done exactly what he did. That’s his right. That’s what they all agreed to. It’s only fair. Scott can scene with any of them, whenever he likes.

Hunger forgotten, Mitch closes all of the cabinets and asks, “Where did he go?”

“Upstairs, I think. To wash up.”

Mitch heads for the stairs. As he reaches the hallway, Scott comes out of the master suite, beaming like a ray of sunshine. Mitch exhales heavily at the sight of him as the knotted up tension in his stomach eases.

“Mitchy!” Scott cries. “I was just heading down to the playroom. I wanted to break in some of the new equipment with Cara. You wanna join me?”

“Oh. Okay, yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone.”

“It’s okay, babe.” Scott meets him at the top of the stairs and gives him an all-too-brief peck on the lips. He keeps moving past Mitch, heading down. “Come on!”

“I just want to grab my bag,” Mitch says.

“Where is it?”

“Cara’s room. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay, well, don’t take too long.” Scott grins brightly and bounds down the stairs, looking like an overexcited puppy.

Mitch is glad Scott has this house now; he’s clearly reveling in the space. He’s reveling in the company, too, but Mitch always knew it would be this way. Scott isn’t his, not exclusively, and he never has been. It’s just more obvious now. Now that Mitch is sharing a living space as well as Scott with the other subs.

He lets himself into Cara’s room and spots his bag immediately, shoved against the wall and gaping open. Cara’s room feels complete now, with the bed made and a memory board pinned to the wall. Mitch looks at the photos tucked into the purple ribbons: Cara with girlfriends, Cara at the top of a mountain, Cara with her family in front of a Christmas tree.

She’s a whole person. A real person with a life separate from Scott, and very separate from Mitch. She has a career and friends that aren’t tied up in some kinky, complicated relationship. It’s strange and shocking for Mitch to realize he doesn’t have the same life. He has friends and family, sure, but Scott is a part of almost every aspect of his social life. Mitch doesn’t go out on his own, he doesn’t travel on his own. He can’t afford to go anywhere without Scott footing the bill. He’s entirely dependent on Scott.

He’s incomplete without Scott. That used to be a good thing, but now… Now Mitch wonders if Cara and Nathan have the better life philosophy.

He goes to his bag and digs through the notebook and pens, the carefully folded paperwork, the post-it note pads until he finds his phone. There’s a missed call from Scott and a few unread texts.

**Almost done with meetings!!**

**How are things going?**

**I guess you’re busy unpacking?**

**I’ll be home soon!!!!**

Despite the uneasy clench in his stomach, Mitch can’t help but smile at the last text in the sequence, which is a single blue heart emoji. He pockets his phone and hurries downstairs toward the playroom.

Scott bought some new furniture now that they have a dedicated room, somewhere private and their own to customize. Mitch has never needed much dungeon equipment, and they get along fine with items small and unobtrusive enough to keep in their bedroom in the apartment, but Mitch knows how much Scott likes visiting rooms at various clubs with Cara and Nathan. It will be fun to explore and experiment, maybe push his own boundaries with this new equipment.

He doesn’t knock—Scott wanted him here, asked specifically for him to observe the scene—but he tries to keep quiet so as to not disrupt.

This is the first time Mitch has witnessed Scott with another sub firsthand. He watches curiously, examining Scott’s posture, his demeanor, searching for differences.

Cara’s stripped down to her underwear, spread-eagled with her hands and feet both cuffed to spreader bars, stretching as tall as she can with her arms suspended above her head and her hair pulled into a messy bun. She has an enviable body—Mitch remembers her pictures on Facebook of rock climbing, charity race running, surfing, skiing. She’s an adventurer, and she’s the kind of fit Mitch can’t even hope to achieve. He slides against the wall to the corner of the playroom, angled behind Cara so he doesn’t distract her as he sinks to his knees to wait. To watch.

Scott seems harder with Cara, more menacing somehow. His gaze is focused and his jaw is set, and he stands with his shoulders back, his chest puffed out. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, and in the starkly lit room with its dark walls and black furniture, his blond hair and pale skin shine like a beacon, demanding attention. He’s murmuring to her, a steady monologue Mitch can’t quite make out, as he walks around her in a slow circle.

He twirls a flogger in his right hand, lazily whipping it around in a slow arc. Pain isn’t one of Mitch’s kinks—though he accepts it from Scott gladly, when the scene dictates—and he finds himself mesmerized by the path of the black leather tails as they cut through the air. Anticipation is building, tightening his throat and making it harder to breathe, and finally Cara makes a noise of desperation, one that Mitch relates to deeply.

Scott moves in, caresses her cheek briefly—a reward; Mitch recognizes the pleased quirk of his lips—and then steps back to snap the flogger from the perfect distance. The tails slap and thud against Cara’s exposed breasts and Mitch flinches automatically. He imagines himself in her place, bound motionless and unable to escape.

The coiling snake of jealousy tightens in Mitch’s gut, squeezing him inside until he gasps. Scott’s focused on Cara, on the noises she’s making with each slap as Scott circles her body, and he doesn’t hear Mitch. He hasn’t even looked at Mitch this whole time. Mitch is a little sad about that, a little hurt, but Scott’s attention is where it should be. He knows that.

“You take it so well,” Scott says, and his voice is oddly taunting. “This is what you’re good for. This is what you’re best at.”

That’s odd phrasing for Scott to use. He finally stops circling Cara and assumes a relaxed stance behind her, giving Mitch a view of his broad shoulders and tapered back. He winds up and swings, and quickly settles into a rhythm with the flogger, seemingly unconcerned with Cara’s vocal reactions. She can’t move much, bound as she is, but she can sure as hell shout.

Scott works her over, building up the intensity until Cara’s near the point of screaming. Mitch has never witnessed him like this, and it’s quite a scene to watch. Scott’s comfortable with the flogger in a way that Mitch didn’t expect; he twirls it and catches the tails over his hand, changes his angle to hit different parts of her body, all without losing the fluidity of his movement, the inertia of the swings.

Mitch is breathless at the sight of Scott’s strong arms, his muscles coiling, the easy, solid way he balances his weight on his feet. He almost wishes to be in Cara’s place, experiencing this punishment himself. Except it’s not a punishment for Cara.

Scott keeps murmuring about how good she’s been today, how well she follows instructions, how proud he is of her. Mitch feels like he’s intruding, eavesdropping by listening so closely to Scott’s words beneath Cara’s wails and the steady slap of the flogger. She’s crying now, tears of pain, and Scott slows his pace, giving her only a few more swings before tossing the tails over his shoulder and letting the flogger rest there, out of the way.

Mitch’s eyes are watering too, an automatic empathetic response to seeing someone cry. He clears his throat and wipes his face, and when Scott unlatches the cuffs from Cara’s ankles and wrists, Mitch rises and cautiously steps closer to them. Scott pulls Cara into a hug, supporting most of her weight, and they sway together while he murmurs praise into her hair.

He catches Mitch’s eye, then, and grins, and the brief acknowledgement quiets the nervous churning of Mitch’s stomach instantly. He smiles back and Scott beckons him closer.

“And how was it to watch, Mitch?” he asks, keeping his voice low and soft.

“It was intense,” Mitch replies. Cara turns her head to face him and Mitch addresses her directly. “You’re so beautiful and so strong. I can’t believe how well you took that beating.”

“Pain isn’t really his thing,” Scott adds.

“It was inspiring to watch you, though. Made me want to try one day.”

Scott’s smile doesn’t waver, but something flashes in his eyes too quickly for Mitch to identify. Curiosity, maybe, or approval? Or maybe Scott is wondering if Mitch is jealous enough of Cara to force himself to like what she likes and accept the pain she craves. Mitch regrets saying anything, now.

But Cara’s beaming at him, her cheeks flushed and stained, and she reaches out to squeeze Mitch’s hand. Mitch just watched her go through something incredibly intimate and powerful, and he feels closer to her as a result. He hopes she feels the same way.

“We went pretty hard today, huh?” Scott asks. He ruffles his fingers through the hair falling out of Cara’s bun. “Why don’t we get you some ice and make you more comfortable?”

Cara leans heavily on Scott as they all leave the playroom, and when they reach the staircase, Scott touches Mitch’s arm. “Could you—” He nods toward the kitchen. “Some tea and some ice for her back?”

“Of course!”

“I’ll take her upstairs. Meet us there.”

Mitch watches them for a moment—they take the stairs slowly, whispering to each other as they go—before turning back to the go to the kitchen. He’s relieved to be making himself useful, serving a purpose rather than acting strictly as a voyeur to Cara’s scene. He fills the electric kettle with water and quickly finds a selection of tea bags in a drawer. Mugs prove a little harder to find, and Mitch ends up opening every cabinet in his search.

Nathan comes into the kitchen as Mitch is putting together an ice pack, filling a gallon bag with handfuls of ice cubes from the freezer.

“Oh, hey!” he says. “Are you finding everything okay? I wasn’t sure where to put some of the—”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mitch replies quickly. The aftereffects of Nathan’s earlier scene seem to have worn off, and he’s bright-eyed again, in sharp focus just like his Instagram photos. It’s quite a contrast to his earlier softness, and Mitch isn’t sure which side of Nathan he prefers. Mitch gives him a quick smile. “I just need to learn the layout. I’m sure everything’s fine where you put it.”

“Great.”

Mitch finishes filling the bag with ice and wraps it in a towel. The tea kettle rumbles. They both stare at it. Mitch isn’t sure what to say. He’s painfully aware of the fact that Nathan and Cara have both had time with Scott today, and it’s hard to keep the jealousy from clouding over his brain. He spent last night with Scott in a fancy hotel, and the past three days in Scott’s apartment. Scott hasn’t seen his other subs since last week. There’s no need for jealousy.

The kettle beeps loudly and Mitch barely refrains from sighing with relief. Nathan’s still hanging around, standing awkwardly in the kitchen and watching while Mitch pours the water into a mug. It feels like a performance, to make tea in front of him.

“She likes it with a little cream,” Nathan says.

Mitch’s hands falter. He hears Nathan opening the fridge behind him, retrieving the cream. He sets it gently right in front of Mitch.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mitch. Have a good night.”

But Nathan doesn’t go anywhere. He waits, leaning against the counter, while Mitch gathers the tea and the towel-wrapped ice pack. He doesn’t move until Mitch leaves the kitchen; once Mitch is in the hallway, he hears cabinets opening, utensils rattling, a pan clanging down on the stove.

Mitch rolls his eyes and mutters to himself, “God, am I really that awkward?” He needs to make more of an effort with Nathan. They need to be more than just acquaintances, if they’re going to live together.

Cara’s door is ajar, so Mitch goes right in. She’s lying on the bed, face down and still shirtless, and Scott is rubbing lotion gently over the vividly pink welts across her shoulder blades. He looks up when Mitch enters and smiles, and Cara turns her head to face him.

“Hey, Mitch!” she says. She looks more alert and cheerful than she did several minutes ago; she must already be coming out of her headspace from the scene.

“I brought tea,” he says. “Nathan told me you like cream.”

“I do! Thank you!”

“The ice pack?” Scott asks.

Mitch sets the mug on Cara’s bedside table and passes the ice pack to Scott, who drapes it carefully where it’s most needed. “You feeling alright?” Mitch asks her.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “If I need them, I have some painkillers in my purse. Speaking of—you left yours here earlier.”

“I know, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t worry about it. I just didn’t want you to forget.” She smiles sunnily and closes her eyes.

Scott pets her hair. “Leave the ice on for a bit,” he says. “The tea will take a few minutes to steep, anyway. I told Nathan to fix you some dinner. We’ll have to order some groceries tomorrow, make sure we’re fully stocked with what everyone likes.”

“Thanks, Scott,” Cara murmurs happily.

Mitch’s stomach twists. He ignores the reason why and instead thinks about the fact that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe he can join Nathan in the kitchen—but Scott hasn’t eaten either. Maybe they should just order in. Mitch is famished, and Scott must be too.

“Mitch?” Scott asks. Mitch gets the sense it isn’t the first time Scott’s said his name.

“Sir?”

“Why don’t we take your bag to our room and give Cara some privacy.”

Mitch nods and stoops to pick up his purse, making sure none of his notes and pens fall out. Scott rests his hand at the small of Mitch’s back to guide him out of the room and down the hall. Mitch realizes halfway there that he hasn’t even set foot in the master suite since this morning, with the movers. It’s probably a mess and not unpacked properly, and Mitch regrets spending so much time on Scott’s studio because their bedroom should’ve been his priority. It should’ve been perfect for their first night in their new house.

He sags a little and opens the door. Then he gasps in surprise.

The huge room is mostly dark, candlelit in the sitting area. Mitch’s gaze slides right over the small table set with the flickering glow, past it to the upright piano against the far wall. The varnished black surface glimmers in the low light.

“It’s yours,” Scott tells him. “Go on.”

Mitch makes a beeline for it, drawn as if pulled by a magnet. His purse slips off his arm and he sinks down onto the cushioned bench seat, instinctively straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as his fingers rest on the keys.

He touches them reverently, almost scared to push down. It’s been so long. His hands settle naturally into a familiar chord. He plays it as an arpeggio, haltingly pressing the keys one at a time and holding there, with the pretty chord reverberating in his mind.

That first chord is a single dose of an addictive drug. Mitch falls into a song, one he hasn’t played since he was a child, and it doesn’t matter that his fingers are stiff and out of practice, it doesn’t matter that he can’t remember all of the countermelody, it just feels so good play again.

“Do you like it?” Scott murmurs. Mitch looks up to see him leaning on the piano, chin resting in his palm. He’s smiling down at Mitch, and he’s probably been standing there since Mitch sat down, but Mitch didn’t notice at all.

The candles draw his attention and Mitch looks past Scott, finally focuses on the lavish meal set out on the table, the bottle of wine, the shiny, glinting silverware and the glass tabletop.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Come sit down,” Scott says, and reaches to take his hand and lead him to the table.

Mitch can’t keep the smile off his face as he sits down in the comfortable armchair. This dining set was in the breakfast nook of Scott’s apartment, but Mitch likes it here in the bedroom. They have space for it here, and it’s like their own little private dining room.

“Did you do this?” Mitch asks.

Scott grins. “I had some help, but yes. I wanted to make tonight nice for you, and I’m sure you haven’t eaten well today. And you didn’t sleep well last night. I know today was stressful, but I hope you can relax now that it’s done. You did such an amazing job with everything, baby. I wanted to surprise you, and I’ve seen you on the keyboard, and I thought—”

Mitch can feel his throat tightening and he really doesn’t want to cry tonight, not in front of Scott and this romantic dinner he planned for them, but it’s inevitable. He’s being silly and he doesn’t want Scott to see this. He covers his face with both hands and breathes deeply for a moment. Tears well in his eyes and he stops breathing, holds utterly still for as long as he can, but then they fall, dripping into his palms, and he’s sobbing, his chest heaving with the irregular gasps and hiccups, and he wants to explain, he needs to explain why, what this night means to him, what Scott’s gift means, but he can’t speak.

Scott reaches across the small table and pulls Mitch’s hands down, away from his face. He rubs his thumbs gently, soothingly across Mitch’s knuckles and says, “Oh, honey, it’s alright. It’s alright, baby, just let it out.”

It’s not the first time he’s cried in front of Scott, or even because of Scott, not by a longshot. It takes a few moments, and a lot of ugly sniffling, before Mitch manages to compose himself and wipe away the tears on his cheeks.

“I just—I haven’t played in so many years,” he says. “And you knew how much I—I just—Thank you.”

Scott gets out of his chair then, comes around the table and wraps his arms around Mitch from behind. He kisses the top of Mitch’s head, a long, gentle press of his lips, and then rests his cheek there while he rocks Mitch in place. Mitch eyes well up again with tears but he’s not ashamed of them now that Scott is holding him. Scott hugs him until his crying subsides, then kisses his head again. Mitch feels the need to explain, to make sure Scott understands.

“I don’t visit my parents enough,” Mitch tells him. It’s not something he likes to dwell on, because it makes him sad—and it makes him feel guilty, too, for not taking the time, for not having a job that pays well enough to afford plane tickets or a road trip. He misses his mom and his dad, and he misses his house back in Texas, and he misses the piano that’s been in the living room since before he was born.

“I know.”

“I haven’t been able to afford a piano, or even a keyboard—and my apartment didn’t have any space for it anyway, and it’s been so long since I’ve played for real, and I’m so out of practice but I miss it so much.”

“I know you do,” Scott murmurs. “I’ve seen you on the keyboard in the studio. You’re probably not as out of practice as you think.”

Mitch is out of practice, though. He messes around sometimes when he’s in a studio that happens to have a keyboard, plays a few notes wistfully, but it’s different to have a real piano, with solid, heavy, wooden keys, with the rich sound and the vibrations he can feel through his fingertips. It’s different to have the full range of eighty-eight keys, the tension of the pedals.

“There’s just something about real pianos,” Mitch says. “It’s different. I don’t know how to thank you.”

He’s so grateful to Scott for paying attention, for knowing he’d want this, and for taking care of him, and for being with him. He’s grateful to Scott for so many things that it’s overwhelming to try and put his feelings and his love into words.

“I’m so happy to live with you now. For real, all the time.”

Scott slips away from him and sits back down across the table, giving Mitch a smug sort of smile. “You don’t miss your apartment?”

Mitch thinks about his tiny, cramped one-bedroom in the ghetto. No, he doesn’t miss that place one bit. Lately Mitch has mostly been using his place for storage, anyway, spending all his time at Scott’s and just returning to his own for fresh clothes or to pick up mail. He shakes his head and says, “Your apartment always felt like home more than mine did.”

Scott gestures to the plates. “Eat,” he prompts. “I know you’re hungry.”

Mitch dutifully picks up his fork and digs in. His throat still feels thick and tight, and his face is warm and flushed from crying, but as soon as the food touches his lips his hunger returns.

“I know you were jealous today,” Scott says. He’s pouring the wine and not looking at Mitch, and he doesn’t see Mitch choke on a bite of salad. Mitch has no room to deny Scott’s claim, though. He swallows and keeps his eyes downcast so he doesn’t have to see Scott’s disappointment.

“I’m sorry.”

“I hope you can forgive me,” Scott continues. “I needed to make Cara and Nathan feel comfortable today, and you’ve been such a huge help, being so welcoming and taking care of all the arrangements and making today go so smoothly.” He passes Mitch a glass of wine. “I hope this makes up for it, at least a little bit. I want you to be as happy here as I am.”

“Thank you.”

Scott laughs under his breath as they raise their glasses and clink together. He waits for Mitch to take a sip of the sweet, sparkling wine. “I just love you so much,” he says, like even he is surprised by how much, “and giving you things makes me happy. I hope you feel that.”

Mitch bites his lip but he can’t stop the smile from stretching across his face. He avoids Scott’s gaze; he’s already blushing too much. “I do,” he says. “You make me feel special and loved and appreciated.”

“Good.” Scott finally takes a sip of his wine and puts the glass down firmly, like he’s making a statement with the sharp clinking noise. “I want to add practicing the piano to your daily tasks.”

A jolt of excitement races down Mitch’s spine. He wants to practice anyway, of course, because he loves the piano and loves playing music, but the concept of being made to do it, of being held accountable for his time the way he is with other tasks Scott assigns him, is a thrilling motivator. “Yes, sir.”

“At least thirty minutes a day,” Scott says, “and when you’re ready, I’d like you to play for me sometime.”

“You can watch me whenever you want!” Mitch replies quickly. “I mean, I’ll be pretty shitty at first while I’m relearning how to play, but I don’t mind you witnessing that. I don’t mind you seeing anything I do.”

The pleased smile Scott gives Mitch then lights up his whole face. “Then I will,” he says. “But I mean that I want you to put on a show. I want to invite people over and have a party and show off my boy.”

“Really?” Nervous excitement flutters in Mitch’s stomach. A performance is a long way off, but it’s a goal, another motivator. A standard Scott has required for him, and Mitch is eager to meet it.

“When you’re ready.”

“Of course, yes, sir.”

They share a smile. Scott gestures toward Mitch’s plate. “Are you finished with your dinner?” At Mitch’s nod, he says, “Then let’s take this wine out to the balcony. That’s why we bought this place, right?”

Mitch goes to the door. He flips the lock and slides it open with one hand; it glides smoothly on the track, letting in a rush of chilly air that makes the candles flutter. The sky is fully dark now, and this house is far enough away from downtown that the light pollution is minimal, at least compared to Scott’s high rise penthouse in the heart of the city. Scott rests his hand at the small of Mitch’s back as they step out onto the balcony, drawing an automatic smile from Mitch.

When they reach the railing, Scott presses in behind Mitch, fitting their bodies together comfortably with one arm wrapped around Mitch’s shoulders, his hand clutched against Mitch’s chest. Mitch leans his head back against Scott, sinking into the warmth of his body.

“Are you happy?” Scott asks in a whisper. “Really? I know today was hard for you.”

“I’m… I’m relieved. It was hard,” he admits. “I am happy.”

“I’m so proud of you, and so, _so_ grateful. I wish I could’ve been here with you. But everything went well, it seems.”

“I think we got most things done,” Mitch says. “Oh! I unpacked your office and your studio. That’s where I was when you tried to call me earlier. I wanted to make sure it was set up how you like it.”

Scott squeezes him tight. “Aw, thank you, baby.”

They lapse into companionable silence, sipping their wine and breathing in sync. Mitch feels more settled than he has all day. He closes his eyes and breathes in the crisp night air, the scent of the chlorine in the pool and the nature in their backyard—an actual backyard, with grass and a garden, and trees that rustle in the wind and sound like the ocean. It’s relaxing, being here. Being in Scott’s arms helps too.

He twists around so they’re facing each other, the railing digging into his back. “Thank you for dinner, sir,” he says, his tone laden with meaning on the honorific.

Scott drags his fingers through the short hair at the back of Mitch’s head. Instead of the expected response, a scripted and cheesy line about Mitch repaying him, Scott sighs heavily and asks, “Wear your collar for me tonight.” There’s no question mark, but Scott’s imploring tone betrays how much he wants it, how desperate he is to have Mitch submit to him formally tonight.

“Of course, sir.”

“Fetch it for me, hon. The usual place in the nightstand. And wait for me on the bed.”

Mitch slips out from between Scott and the railing, a little surprised that the room is unpacked, that his collar is in its usual drawer. Scott’s earlier words— _I had help_ —return to Mitch’s mind and the pieces slot into place. Cara helped Scott unpack, and Nathan probably did too, all while Mitch was otherwise occupied. He can’t fully decipher his complicated feelings about this, about these people he barely knows touching and arranging his personal, intimate possessions, but he thinks the good outweighs the bad. Scott did this for him, they all did, as a surprise. As a show of appreciation.

He strips off his clothes as he goes to the bed, dropping them into a pile that he quickly shoves to the dark corner of the room. The hamper is probably in the closet, but Mitch is sure Scott won’t mind the messiness tonight, while they’re getting used to the new space.

The collar is indeed perfectly placed in the drawer, coiled and resting neatly atop a clean, folded hand towel. Mitch climbs onto the tall, four-poster bed and positions himself in the center, kneeling with the collar clasped in both hands in his lap. He keeps his head down and his back straight, shoulders dropped comfortably, while Scott fiddles with the plates on the table across the room.

He finally brings over two of the candles, places one on the dresser and the other closer to the bed, on the nightstand. The flickering light warms the room, and Mitch bites down on a smile at how romantic it feels.

“Very good,” Scott murmurs. He reaches out and drags his fingertips down Mitch’s arm, starting from his shoulder. Instead of taking the collar, he keeps his hand moving, dropping from Mitch’s wrist to his thigh, and then stroking back up to the center of his back, sending a shiver racing through Mitch’s body.

Mitch keeps his hands curled loosely around the strip of leather, fighting to remain still while Scott continues to stroke him and pet him. It’s soothing and tantalizing at once, and Mitch feels the familiar white noise of comforting fog creeping in around the edges of his mind. He closes his eyes.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” Scott tells him softly. “Always follow instructions so well. You follow all the rules so perfectly.”

 _I try_ , Mitch wants to say, but Scott didn’t phrase it as a question. He doesn’t want Mitch to respond or disagree.

Scott keeps his hands moving, feather-light as he traces the lines of Mitch’s tattoos, the curves and bends of his limbs. He takes the collar gently out of Mitch’s hands, then reaches up to tuck one finger beneath his chin.

“Head up, sweetheart. Turn to me.”

Mitch opens his eyes and breathes deeply. He turns his whole body, shuffling his knees until he’s angled toward the side of the bed, toward Scott. His chin is level with the floor, and on this bed, kneeling upright as he is, he’s taller than Scott. Only by a narrow margin, but it’s enough to make it weird and unusual. Mitch realizes they’ve never been in exactly this position before. He slowly sits down on his heels, maintaining eye contact with Scott the whole time, and he watches the barest hint of a smile flicker at the corner of Scott’s lips.

When Mitch settles comfortably, Scott reaches for him, cupping his cheek and tracing his lips with his thumb. “Beautiful,” he whispers.

Mitch smiles. Scott taps his thumb against Mitch’s lower lip before taking his hand away.

He wraps the collar around Mitch’s neck and buckles it easily at his nape. It’s tight enough that Mitch can’t ignore it, can’t forget that there’s a length of leather around his throat. It’s comforting that way, like a constant reminder of Scott’s love, his devotion and his ownership.

Scott leans in and kisses Mitch, a gentle, wet brush of their lips together, and he steps back from the bed before Mitch can properly respond.

“Undress me,” he says.

Grateful to have a task, Mitch slides off the bed and drops to his knees in front of Scott. He starts with his shoes, and Scott’s hand falls to Mitch’s head while he unties the laces. He doesn’t pet Mitch, doesn’t guide him, just rests his hand there for balance while Mitch takes off his shoes and socks. His pants are next, and Mitch has to peel them off his legs. He brushes tiny, light kisses on Scott’s pale skin as it’s exposed. One on his hip, one on his thigh, his knee, his calf.

It’s harder to resist kissing Scott’s hard cock as he pulls down Scott’s underwear next. He licks his lips and gives Scott a look, silently asking. Scott’s lips quirk up, but he doesn’t tell Mitch to go ahead, so Mitch ignores his cock and stands up to pull off Scott’s shirt instead. He lays a few more kisses on Scott’s firm chest, his sternum, and finally the underside of his stubbly chin once the t-shirt is removed.

“Good,” Scott murmurs. “I know you can be patient.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Up on the bed, sweetheart.”

Scott joins him this time. They both kneel, with Scott at the head of the bed and Mitch in front of him, and Scott takes Mitch’s face between his hands, cupping his jaw. He kisses Mitch so thoroughly it leaves Mitch breathless, and he tentatively reaches up to touch Scott’s arms. He rests his fingers at the bend of Scott’s elbows, touching but not holding, passive as Scott overpowers him.

After a while, when Mitch is lightheaded and buzzing with languid, hazy pleasure, Scott rearranges their bodies so Mitch is straddling his lap. He positions his cock and holds the back of Mitch’s head, keeps their gazes locked together as he pushes in. Mitch struggles to keep his eyes open, leaning back helplessly into Scott’s hand as he sinks down on Scott’s cock.

Scott clings to his waist as he set a slow, forceful pace, rocking their bodies together and driving soft, desperate cries from Mitch’s lungs. He moves his hands then to Mitch’s wrists, holds them together at the small of his back. Mitch arches back, held safely by Scott’s arms around him, and rolls his hips to meet each of Scott’s deep thrusts.

He twists his wrists and settles into Scott’s firm hold. His brain is offline; he can’t even articulate coherent thoughts inside his own head. He feels Scott’s cock inside him, the hot friction and the ache of the stretch. He feels the tightness of the collar around his throat, restricting his breathing just enough to be noticeable. His face is flushed, and the warmth spreads all the way down to his chest. He can feel Scott radiating heat as well. Scott’s breath gusts against Mitch’s face; Mitch can almost taste it, taste Scott on his lips.

He closes his eyes on a moan and leans his head back. The collar constricts around his throat. Scott’s teeth drag down from the hinge of Mitch’s jaw to the collar itself. He bites the edge of the leather band. There are too many sensations for Mitch’s overwhelmed brain to track: Scott’s wet lips, the hard points of his canine teeth, the rough scratch of his beard. Scott kisses and bites and sucks a bruise into Mitch’s skin, and Mitch can do nothing but let it happen, desperate and boneless as a ragdoll in Scott’s arms.

Scott suddenly lets go of Mitch’s wrists and grabs his chin instead, pulling him in for a demanding kiss. Mitch wavers, feeling adrift without Scott’s hands binding him in place. He clutches at Scott’s shoulders and lets Scott devour him, mindless with pleasure.

“You close, baby?” Scott asks. “Gonna come for me, angel?”

The pet name makes Mitch’s heart pound. He’s practically glowing with love and appreciation for Scott. “Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, sir, please.”

Scott drops his hand down to Mitch’s cock to finish him off, and Mitch comes with a sharp cry soon after. He wraps his arms around Scott’s neck in an effort to stay upright and sloppily kisses Scott’s parted lips. Scott’s gasping and groaning into Mitch’s mouth, close to orgasm himself, and Mitch murmurs over and over again, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Scott clings to Mitch as he comes, his face screwed into a grimace, his short fingernails digging hard into Mitch’s back. He nuzzles Mitch’s neck, his beard scratching the sensitive, newly-bruised skin. “I love you so much,” he whispers.

They breathe in sync for several long moments, still joined together. Mitch doesn’t want to move from Scott’s lap. He’s not ready to go to sleep, not ready for this night to end.

Scott does eventually pull out and lay them down on the bed, wrapped around each other so there’s no space between their bodies. He touches Mitch’s collar, strokes it absently with his thumb. He pulls the comforter over them. It’s too cold in this huge room, too unfamiliar.

This is their room, now. Their space, and the flickering candles make the furniture cast strange, long shadows on the ceiling. Mitch thinks he could get used to it. He hopes, anyway.

Then Scott plants a gentle, light kiss on his forehead and says, “Welcome home,” and Mitch knows this new house will be just fine.

 

 _fin_.


End file.
